Casual Observer
by Betz88
Summary: Dr. Wilson finds out that he too will be disabled for life. Now he is in the same boat as House. The two of them will either find a common ground, or fight each other. I call this serious fluff with a little lite HW.


"CASUAL OBSERVER"

Betz88

It was only a slight shuffle of movement drifting back from the direction of the kitchen that brought him instantly awake, like the sensation of things being shunted about with care; someone taking great pains to be quiet. Mouse-in-the-partition kind of sound.

He froze in place with his head an inch off the pillow, listening, straining to catch some further clue at the edge of perception. He was puzzled for a moment when it didn't come again. Then the moment passed and he realized belatedly that it was still dark outside, but he was no longer sleepy.

More like … curious.

At a loss to explain what he thought he had heard, he wondered if he might have been dreaming and his senses were playing tricks on him.

But no!

The faint, tantalizing aroma of bacon wafted into his awareness and found him suddenly confused, ravenous, and suspicious at the same instant. It occurred to him that perhaps the all-important medical consultation in Newark might have ended early and Dr. Cuddy had opted not to stay the night. She knew he kept his key on the ledge over the front door, and she could have used it to enter quietly without disturbing them.

No! Couldn't be. What the hell was he thinking? The drive back to Princeton took less than an hour. Cuddy would have tiptoed into the bedroom, knelt by his side of the bed and awakened him immediately with the news, good or bad. She certainly would not have gone to the kitchen to cook breakfast, for God's sake!

Gregory House shifted gradually to his left in the big bed, already knowing without a doubt what he would find. The dim glow that seeped between the draperies from the streetlight on the corner revealed only an empty space with covers turned back and a shadowed dent on the pillow where James Wilson's head should have been.

House hitched a breath of alarm tinged with anger, and fumbled beneath the blankets to fish out his sweat pants, guide his feet into the top and draw them up gingerly over his hips. He swung his legs, with effort, over the edge of the mattress and reached out a hand in the dark to feel for his cane. His leg reminded him that he had not had a Vicodin for over six hours, but he cursed under his breath and struggled to lever upright.

He stumbled drunkenly in the dark for a few moments, searching for balance and beating a lopsided tattoo on the floor. Something in the kitchen clanked faintly and it rang through his senses like a gong. He straightened, gasping, as a jolt of apprehension snaked along his spine. He didn't have the strength or the patience to search for the old tan moccasins, probably out of reach beneath the bed. He cursed again under his breath and ran his fingers through his mop of tangled silver-in-chestnut hair.

Wilson was in the kitchen. Making breakfast.

Jesus! He was going to kill himself! Or burn the place down. Or both!

At that instant, every hair at the nape of House's neck stood on end, and goose bumps raced in relays down his arms. He hurried down the hallway as quickly as he was able in his bare feet, and rounded the corner into the living room. From there he could see that the kitchen was still enfolded by the gray gloom of approaching dawn, but the sounds of a pan scraping across a stove burner told him he'd been right in his assumption that Wilson was indeed cooking. He could see the reddish glow of a surface unit through the murky images, and then caught the beginnings of the percolator's gurgle, followed by the aroma of fresh-brewing coffee.

Damn! The man was good!

He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and reached the handle of his cane around the corner to snap on the light. Wilson's head came up startled at the clack of wood on the wall plate, and his fringe of moppy auburn hair dropped endearingly over his forehead, making him look a little like an errant four-year-old.

"I couldn't sleep. I was trying not to wake you …" He offered lamely.

House snickered and walked into the kitchen. "Not possible, Ace," he said, stifling a yawn. "First, you need to figure out a way to corral the smell of bacon …"

Wilson frowned as he fumbled about opening a fresh loaf of wheat bread. "Oh yeah … didn't think of that."

House took the loaf from his friend's hands and finished opening the end of the wrapper. He handed it back. "Here, fumble fingers. The toaster is over on the counter, in case you can't find it …"

Wilson snorted. "Right where it's been for the past three years, House. Yeah, I know. I know this place better than you do!" He removed four slices and dropped two of them into the slots, then turned around triumphantly.

"How do you want your eggs?"

"Scrambled," House replied. "Keep it simple, stupid."

Wilson nodded and returned his attention to the stove. He'd removed the bacon, fried to crispy curls, and laid it out on paper towels. The excess grease was already poured into an old tin can that House kept for that purpose, and he reached for the four eggs he'd placed on the sideboard. One of them skittered away from him and nearly rolled onto the floor. House made a quick grab for it and caught it just in time. He handed it back with a snort of quiet derision. "Tricky little bastards, these eggs" he said softly. "They'll try to sneak away from you every chance they get"

Wilson nodded mutely as he cracked the eggs into the pan and reached over to lower the heat a tad. He seemed to have lost some of his former enthusiasm, and he turned his back deliberately to House and leaned his body forward over the corner where a long smooth work counter paralleled the side of the oven.

House walked up behind him and placed his left hand tentatively on one slender shoulder.

"Hey … nobody cries over spilled eggs around here … you got that?"

Wilson turned around, a slow about-face, and looked up. "I was testing myself," he said.

"I don't know if this is going to work out. I may have to take that apartment the hospital offered me down at the Commons. It was kind of you to invite me to move in here with you … but I may be more of a liability than an asset. You don't need another liability."

House snorted and looked off in the opposite direction. "You let me be the judge of that, okay? You've gotta give yourself a chance. You haven't even been here a week yet, and so far we're making it okay. Besides, I can cook if I have to, so that's no big deal. You just need to take it easy until we find out what the hell's causing this crap. Cuddy will be back today, and she'll have all your test results and the labs … and we'll know what we have to do to fix it."

"And what if it can't be fixed? What then?"

House hesitated. He took a deep breath and expelled it at length, playing for time. He squeezed Wilson's shoulder briefly, and then turned toward the excited coffee pot, finally beginning to blow its top across the room. "Then," he said at last, "then … I guess we play the cards we're dealt."

"'We?'" The word was barely above a whisper.

"You heard me!" House grumbled. "I didn't stutter. And there are still dozens of other possibilities. You're not going anywhere. Those cracker boxes down on the Commons won't work for you. Trust me!" He lifted the lid of the coffee maker and pulled out the bucket of grounds. He dumped it in the sink and washed the grounds down the drain.

Wilson heard the force of the cane hitting the floor intermittently, but without the accompanying sounds of House's Nikes, it was a puzzle for a moment. "Why are you in your bare feet? You know you shouldn't …"

A bark of sarcastic laughter floated back. "When you can't come up with an answer, you just change the subject, right?"

Wilson chuffed displeasure deep in his throat. "Learned from an expert." He stepped to the pan with the eggs. Beneath the lid, the final step of their breakfast lay light and yellow and fluffy in the pan. Fanning his hands over the plates and utensils he had laid out meticulously in preparation, Wilson scooped the eggs onto two plates, followed them with four slices of bacon each. He pulled the toast from their slots and inserted the remaining two.

Across the room, House poured two cups of coffee and watched his best friend with a combination of admiration and sorrow. He knew there was hurt in that clipped retort, but he felt powerless to offer Wilson support by any other method. "Sorry …"

Wilson straightened gradually, and his slender shoulders disengaged from shadow and moved into the room's overhead light. "It's okay." He turned to regard the other man with slightly raised eyebrows, the shaggy forelock still dangling like the fringe on an antique lampshade. He held a plate in each hand, and moved toward House gingerly, as though very aware of his lack of balance, and unsure or undecided where to set them down.

House took the plates and placed them on the butcher block. His eyes never left Wilson's face, but James stared straight ahead and did not acknowledge the emotion that radiated from the veiled blue eyes. House pulled a pair stools close to the table and they both perched on them to enjoy breakfast.

They ate in silence, each aware of the discomfort building between them. It couldn't be helped. They were both tense about the coming prognosis and completely unwilling to admit to it.

House finished with his plate, drained his coffee and wiped his mouth on a paper towel. "Not bad," he said by way of conversation. "In fact it was pretty good for a goofy Jewish guy from Hackensack. You do know you're eating pig … right?"

Wilson nodded and laid down his fork. "Yup," he said. "Eating one and feeding another …"

"Ooh … that cut to the quick. I'm just surprised that none of it tasted of charcoal!"

"You trying to tell me you appreciate my abilities as a short-order cook? Or that you're relieved I didn't burn down the house?"

House snickered, happy that the conversation seemed to be moving onto safer ground.

"A little of both," he said. "More coffee?"

Wilson held out his cup in answer, and House poured it three-quarters. They were both leery of infringing on guarded territory; feeling their way accordingly. Things were changing rapidly in both their lives now, and it was going to be difficult to find common ground as they faced an uncertain future.

"Are you sure you want to stay involved with this?" Wilson finally asked. "You don't have to, you know. I'm a big boy, and I'm pretty sure I can take care of myself …"

House sniffed; smiled a little before he answered. "Remember ten years ago?"

"That was different!"

"Yeah? How?"

"After Stacy left, you were alone. You couldn't walk … could barely move. Someone had to …"

"I could have _hired_ someone!"

"That's a joke. Who the hell would have put up with you besides me? There isn't enough gold in Fort Knox to pay someone enough to take care of you!"

"Point taken. I know I'm a nuisance sometimes, but I owe you, Wilson. You're gonna need someone to help keep your ass out of trouble until we get this thing under control … and that would be me. I know you're capable of doing anything you want to do …"

"Except cook breakfast, maybe," Wilson concluded wryly. He cocked an annoying eyebrow again, and slid off the stool. "And _you …_ are gonna look out for … _me?"_

"You heard me! What the hell are you doing now?"

"The dishes. Sit still, drink your coffee and shut up! I can do this! If you still want me to make your damn macadamia nut pancakes, we'd better be damn sure I can do this!"

Wilson moved smoothly about the small kitchen. He was as familiar with it as its owner, maybe more so. He'd certainly done more real cooking there than House had ever even thought about. When Wilson was around, there was meat in the freezer, vegetables in the crisper and something besides beer in the refrigerator.

Gregory House sat back and rubbed at the ache in his thigh. He watched the other doctor with a mixture of affection and sadness. It was lighter outside now, little need for the light in the kitchen. He raised the handle of the cane again and flipped it off. The new day was unfolding itself like a bud on a rose across the east end of the city, and sunlight was spilling over the windowsill and across the floor and the old butcher block table and onto the counters along the other side.

Wilson's tee-shirt-clad back and shoulders were beginning to blend into a patchwork of sunspots as daylight filled in the shadow pockets of his willowy body. Already the sun was highlighting the gold in his hair. The close-cropped style he'd worn earlier in the year was beginning to soften into a more pleasing, slightly longer version.

House shifted his attention to Wilson's hands as they moved with the same grace that had characterized the man's movements as long as House had known him. He had not lost the physical expression of that grace, even during rare times of illness or injury, and he had not lost it now.

House sighed silently to himself. Where would it go from here?

00000000

Dr. Lisa Cuddy left the medical consult at the Wills Surgical Center in North Brunswick at 2:30 p.m. It would only take her forty-five minutes … an hour at the outside … to make it back to House's place from the medical center. She walked to her SUV slowly, her feet dragging in a manner that made her think of them as reluctant to return with a folder full of test results and scans that reflected only bad news for James Wilson.

There was a heaviness in Cuddy, physical and mental. Twenty of the best specialists on the east coast had agreed without exception that this was one of the most unusual and perplexing cases they had ever seen. Their final prognosis had only confirmed what the staff at Princeton-Plainsboro already knew.

There was nothing to be done for Dr. Wilson. Something in his genetic makeup had been lying in wait all through his infancy, his youth and young manhood, and now at the dawn of early middle age, had blossomed into hardcore reality that would haunt him for the remainder of his life. Medical technology had not yet progressed to the point of offering him a cure and allowing him to remain alive at the same time. Cure the ailment … kill the patient. Not good enough!

Although Wilson was already on medication and his condition would progress no further,

The damage already done was permanent and irreversible. He would probably be retired by the hospital, and that was … as they say … that!

There were tears in Dr. Cuddy's eyes as she climbed into her car to head back to House's elegant dump on Baker Street in Princeton. It was not having to reveal the news to Wilson that distressed her most, but having to face the thunderous outrage of Gregory House when she told him about the inconsolable loss of his friend and colleague that tore her heart in two.

00000000

House thumped his empty coffee cup onto the old butcher-block table and slid gingerly off the stool. He grasped the cane and tested his weight cautiously on the right leg. The pain spiked and he barely swallowed the gasp that tried to leave his throat.

Wilson turned from the sink when he heard the cane thump the floor a little harder than usual. He walked over and stood with hands on hips expectantly. "What's wrong?"

House rolled his eyes skyward. This was going to be a fucking interesting living arrangement … two old cripples outguessing each other as to who hurt the most … and when … and how bad.

_Shit!_

"Nothing."

It was clear that Wilson did not believe him. James walked in front of him with a hand on the stool and reached around his body to remove the empty coffee cup. "Liar!"

House made to turn around and retreat from the room. "I … need to go make the donuts," he smirked. "I'll be right back. Try not to kill yourself in the meantime …"

Wilson knew the interpretation to that remark was: _I'm in pain and I need to go swallow some Vicodin …_

A slender hand let go of the coffee cup on the table and drew back, sliding gently onto the larger, wider paw that pressed down on the cane so hard that House's knuckles felt as though they would penetrate his skin. "House … don't shut me out! It's going to be important from now on that you don't. If we're going to learn to live with this business, we have to trust each other enough to tell the truth and admit when it hurts …"

House attempted to withdraw his hand from the grasp, but the combination of his pain and Wilson's determination made it impossible.

Wilson was looking down, but when House started to back away, his head came up swiftly. His dark eyes continued to lift far beyond the point where House's gaze could have locked onto their brightness. Wilson withdrew his hand again with quiet dignity and turned back toward the sink. His movements across the room were halting, but determined. He reached out and thrust his hands into the dishwater as though using the sink full of dirty dishes to steady himself. "There are only so many corners around here for you to hide your face in, House, and only so many excuses until you have to admit that 'scared' isn't a dirty word. If you want me to leave, just say so, and I'll be out of here by tomorrow …"

House stood his ground, writhing in pain but as determined as Wilson had been. "You make a lousy martyr!" He snapped. "And you're not going anywhere! Like I said, I owe you … and we'll either work it out or we'll kill each other!"

"Nooo …" The word came out as a moan. Wilson stumbled suddenly and almost went down; may actually have done so, had not House's strong left arm been there to buoy him up. A bark of harsh laughter came from Wilson's mouth and it startled House to the point of backing away again, hop-stepping precariously on his left leg, trying to protect the right one.

"You're so damned predictable!" House snarled. "So here's something else predictable for you to chew on. "You put up a brave fucking front, but when the chips are down, you fold like a deck chair on the _Titanic!_ Of _course_ we're scared! You're scared … I'm scared. I admit it. And they're going to retire you. You're going to be useless as a doctor. Useless as an oncologist. Maybe useless as a friend!

"You're even more pathetic than I am, Wilson. You seem to think this mess is going to be a cakewalk. You assume that you're gonna come out of it unscathed … but you're not. This is forever. You can't take care of me anymore … no more watching out for the cripple … 'cause you're a cripple too. Always will be. No miracle cures, Wilson … for either of us. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! We'll probably kill each other."

House pivoted on the cane, hopping, scrambling for balance, grimacing beneath the pain of medication too long delayed. "Stay put!" He gasped. "I'll be right back. Want the 'truth'? The 'truth' is that my leg hurts so bad I may pass out … if I'm not back in ten minutes, you might find me laying in the middle of the bedroom floor."

That quickly, he was gone.

Wilson was left standing at the sink, hands dripping soap and water, mouth hanging open in a vain attempt to make sense of that final tirade … staring in the general direction of the kitchen doorway.

The predicted ten minutes passed and House had not reappeared.

Wilson dried his hands and went looking. Trailing his fingers along the hallway wall, he walked slowly in the direction of the bedroom. The back rooms of the place were ominously quiet. His hand met the framework of the bedroom doorway and he leaned around the corner.

"House?"

"What?" His voice came from the bed.

Wilson approached with trepidation. "House? Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Waiting for the meds to work. Sorry, Wilson. That was unfair. You're new at this, and I had no right to land on you like that. C'mere, willya?"

Hesitating, Wilson started across the room.

House stood up and planted the cane by his right foot. He had fished the soft-sole moccasins out from under the edge of the bed, and now wore them loosely with the thongs untied. He reached out for Wilson's shoulder and spun his friend around as he approached.

"Dishes done?"

"Nah … I came looking for you like you said …"

Together they walked back down the hallway toward the living room. House was gasping each breath.

They nearly made it to the couch.

House went down like a ton of bricks. His had leg indeed folded like that 1912 deck chair. The two of them landed in a painful tangle in the middle of the floor, grabbing at one another, their breaths hot on each other's faces. "Oh God, Wilson … I don't think I can take much more of this …"

Both struggled to their feet, still locked in close embrace. House might have moved away quickly, had it not been for the pressure exerted by Wilson's arms drawing him closer. Still he protested. "Wilson … let me go … I'm so sorry …"

"Ah House … this isn't going to work. I need to leave here … find a place of my own. I can't do this. I'm torturing you!"

"What the hell are you talking about? Oh God … my leg …" He was gasping again.

Wilson's soft heart melted. How could he leave this man? He was needed here. "I wish I could take away your pain …"

"Yeah … yeah … dammit, Wilson … don't you ever listen to anything?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're home! Goddammit, Wilson, you're home because your home is with me! You dumb sonnovabitch … I love you!"

But you said … WHAT?? You what?"

"I love you, you dumb bastard. I can't make it any plainer than that. We have to stop running away from each other. We've both been running in the wrong direction … for years."

With exquisite tenderness, more tenderness than Gregory House thought he was capable of giving, he lifted Wilson's slender fingers to his lips and gently kissed them with more feeling than he had ever known.

The moppy auburn head lowered to House's shoulder and Wilson turned to his best friend, allowing himself to be drawn into the other man's embrace. "And I … love you."

He found that he meant it from the depths of his soul.

00000000

They sat on the couch, heads close together, shivering in the excitement of discovery and confident that there could be a future for both of them together.

After a time, they went into the kitchen to prepare a late lunch.

House peeled potatoes into the sink after they'd cleaned out the dishwashing residue. Wilson moved over to his spot between the counter and the stove, raising his head toward the sunlit window, reaching out to touch the broad sash. The sun was on the other side of the sky now, but his gaze still lifted outward as though in search of something. His face was calm, his features softer in the afternoon light, and House watched his movements boldly as he finished up the potatoes and then stepped closer to his friend's side. "What the hell are you looking at out there?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Wilson's mouth as he turned his head and lowered it to rest against House's chest. "Looking? It's not so much 'looking' as it is a casual observation of a few things I never looked at before. Like you! My perception of you has just undergone a drastic change. I like it."

Beneath his ear, the rumble of quiet laughter grew in House's chest until it swelled and escaped gently into the quiet room like a whisper in a vacuum.

00000000

They were still standing together in the kitchen when the front door opened.

Lisa Cuddy walked slowly through the living room and paused in the doorway. The folder in her hand seemed ominous. She walked over in front of them and placed it on the butcher block.

Across from her, two of the most respected men in her universe cocked their heads, awaiting her news.

"I'm so very sorry, Dr. Wilson," she began. "Your condition is irreversible. The infection which attacked your …"

She broke off abruptly and frowned. They seemed a little preoccupied, not quite listening.

"Cuddy … he knows. We both know. But it's all right. He's staying on with me. If he comes back to the hospital at all, it'll be to consult. But we have to talk about it first."

Wilson nodded agreement. He seemed relaxed, although his focus was directed just beyond Cuddy's left shoulder. A tug of deep sadness reminded her that that focus would be forever somewhere a little off center. Gregory House, however, looked her square in the eyes, and she could have sworn she saw a twinkle that wasn't there before. It fit him well.

Cuddy looked back and forth between them, suddenly getting it. She then caught a glimpse of two hands barely touching … Wilson's fingers brushing against House's fingers where they rested on the handle of the cane.

"I'll be damned!" She said. The smile lit her eyes, her lips, her whole face. Cameron was forever shit out of luck!

"We have some good news," Wilson was saying. He could not, after all, see the looks on their faces.

Cuddy caught the twinkle in House's eyes again, and grinned for her own benefit. She reached out for one of the stools and sat down on it before her knees buckled.

She knew all about the "good news" …

Did they think she was _blind?_

- The End -

13


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